


heard you howling as you passed by

by madameofmusic



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Ensemble Cast, M/M, Modern Magic, Urban Magic, Witch!Jack, haus as werewolf pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 18:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16624175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madameofmusic/pseuds/madameofmusic
Summary: Jack Zimmermann, local witch and son of the famous Bad Bob and Alicia Zimmermann, gets assigned to the Samwell Pack as an emissary, where he meets the most unconventional pack he's ever heard of, the world's nicest alpha, and makes some friends (and maybe more) along the way.





	heard you howling as you passed by

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZepysGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZepysGirl/gifts).



> Big thank you to Morgan for donating to The Trevor Project, and for coming up with such a fun idea to work with. 
> 
> Super big thanks to [Julie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronanlynchisneversleepingagain/pseuds/ronanlynchisneversleepingagain), who is an incredible beta and fixes my many weirdly long sentences as she can. Any of those left are completely on me. 
> 
> Title from [ The Devil Wears a Suit and Tie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rqR1cjuPXUg) by Colter Wall, which I definitely used as inspiration even if this takes place in Massachusetts and not Appalachia ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ sue me.

“New assignment, Jack.” A folder drops neatly in front of Jack, right on top of the notes he was taking. He frowns, and looks up, meeting the eyes of Alexei, the huge witch with a penchant for hexes that he’s been sharing an office with for the last six months.

“For me?” Jack asks, already opening the manila folder and flipping through it.

Alexei nods, and pulls his chair over, flips it around, and sits down across from Jack. “New pack, I think? Little Massachusetts werewolves need emissary.”

Jack purses his lips. He was hoping for something quick in the city, so that he could come back and finish transcribing the grimoire research and development had found on a bust. As a field agent and _definitely not_ an emissary, R&D shouldn’t have been giving him anything like this.

But, as the son of Bad Bob and Alicia Zimmermann, two of the most powerful witches in the last century, and by route of being the son and thus getting education from the best university on the entire hemisphere, Jack’s knowledge of witch history and grimoire creation makes him useful.

He doesn’t know why they haven’t moved him full-time into R&D, but he suspects it’s something to do with staying on the good side of his father (despite Bob being happy with Jack just being alive and mostly well). The agency has assumed since Jack was hired that he has all the same interests as Bob, the agency’s most decorated member since its establishment a century and a half previous. Jack wouldn’t be surprised if his relegation to field work (despite not having even half the skill with spellwork as Bob has) is a product of those same assumptions.

“Did they tell you when I’m supposed to start?” Jack says, trying to hide as much of the displeasure he feels from his voice as possible.

“Tomorrow.” Alexei claps a hand on his shoulder, and nods. “It’s only for little bit, Jack. Until pack gets stabilized, and then you come right back, finish that book.” Alexei nods once, confident in his prediction, and strides away.

Alexei’s predictions were more likely to predict the opposite outcome than be correct, but even without knowing that, Jack can feel in his bones that he’s going to be at this one for awhile.

* * *

Jack cracks his neck, feeling the strain of exhaustion edging on panic borne from travel far too much for as early in the morning as it is. After he’d received the assignment, he went home immediately and packed what little things he’d need, figuring that any supplies for the pack he’d need to grab he could do so in Samwell. The town has a university, albeit much smaller and human-focused than the one he’d gone to, but it should still carry the basics for spell casting.

Jack’s not even sure what he’s doing here. The file had been vague and the dossier on the pack leader short. Apparently, Eric Bittle had taken over the pack sometime early that year in a relatively peaceful transfer of power. The previous pack leader, Johnson, had mated with a wolf from a larger pack across the country and was happy to cede his leadership to Bittle.

Usually, packs only need emissaries when the territory is under threat from disputes or magic sickness. This one seems to be neither, so Jack’s unsure of what he’s walking into.

Jack bumps into someone, head still buried in the files, hopelessly scanning through their scant pages for any clues for what to expect. “Sorry,” he mumbles, brushing past the man.

An unusually strong grip pulls him back. Jack’s panic ramps up, his magic coming alive under the perceived threat. “Woah!” The guy says, immediately dropping his arm. “You must be Jack.”

Jack shoves the panic down, nods. “You are…?”

The man sticks out a hand, and flashes Jack a grin. Jack doesn’t miss the too-sharp teeth, or the eyes, glowing even in the daylight filtering through the airport’s windows. “Call me Shitty. I’m Bitty’s second. He sent me to pick you up.”

Jack stuffs the folder in his bag, and takes Shitty’s hand. “Nice to meet you.” He’s frowning, trying to figure out how Shitty knew he was there for the pack.

Shitty, seeming to read Jack’s mind, lets out a snort. “Buddy, you smell like magic. Samwell’s not a famous visiting destination, and your agency sent a description. S’not hard to piece together.” Shitty claps a hand on his back, and then nods his head in the direction of the parking lot. “C’mon, the car’s outside.”

Jack follows the were, hesitation coating his insides until a ball of panic begins to form. He mumbles something under his breath and flicks his fingers as inconspicuously at Shitty as he can. The man begins to glow subtly, a ghostly form only Jack can see covering Shitty’s features. He sighs with relief when that form takes the shape of a wolf.

Jack gets in the car Shitty unlocks, a beat-up old Nissan from a time before Jack was born. The leather seats creak under Jack’s weight as he pulls himself in.

Shitty peals out of the parking lot, racking up speed until they’re weaving between cars. Shitty’s an excellent driver, but witches don’t have the preternatural healing of weres. Jack’s knuckles go white around the grab handle, and he grunts, trying to ignore every near-miss Shitty has with not very much success.

Shitty looks over, and then immediately slows down to somewhere near the speed limit. “Sorry, buddy, forgot the mortals don’t like my driving.”

“It’s pretty terrible,” Jack mumbles.

Shitty’s hearing picks it up, and he laughs, clapping a hand on Jack’s shoulder, amused by Jack’s snarky comment.

Soon enough, they’re at what Jack assumes is the pack house. It’s a ramshackle building. Its walls lean ever so slightly to the left, and Jack can see from here the many repairs that have been done to it. It’s small for a pack of Bittle’s size.

Shitty throws open his door, and lets out a high-pitched whistle. Instantly, the door to the pack house is thrown open, and several large men come tumbling out. “Boys, meet Jack, our new emissary.”

“Temporary emissary,” Jack mumbles as he lifts a hand in an awkward wave. The two weres slap him on the shoulder and drag him inside, chattering about names and places Jack doesn’t have any reference for, though Eric Bittle’s name is mentioned quite frequently throughout.

“You’re overwhelming him.” Jack’s senses go on high alert, his magic swelling inside of him at some perceived threat his conscious mind hasn’t picked up on yet. A woman steps out from one of the doorways and raises an eyebrow. “Down, boy.”

Jack narrows his eyes. “Demon.”

The woman hums, and shrugs. “Some days.” She looks amused at Jack’s display. “Most days I go by Lardo, though.”

Jack looks at the two men who dragged him down the hall, and Shitty, still standing in the doorway. None of them look alarmed in the slightest. Jack holds out his hand for a handshake. “Jack.”

Instead of shaking, she gives him a low-five, and grins. “Welcome to the pack, Jack.”

The men on either side of him (one of whom is Ransom, and the other Holster, but he’s still not quite sure who’s who) continue their tour around the house. Jack’s mind dwells instead on Lardo, ignoring most of what the duo are telling him. Not often do were packs mingle with other creatures, and rarer still do they take in a demon.

There’s weirder things here, though. Jack’s magic, weak as it is, slowly unravels the different threads running through the house as they lead him through it. He makes them stop a few times, pressing his hands to various doorways and windowsills as he picks up old, worn-out protection spells and traces of creatures he’s unfamiliar with.

“Do you have any other pack members that aren’t werewolves?” Jack asks, once the tour is over and they’ve returned to the kitchen. Jack’s yet to meet Bittle, and it’s been more than an hour. He’s slightly annoyed, to say the least, considering the favor the agency is doing for Bittle’s pack, but he smothers it in layers of his usual surliness.

Ransom and Holster, who he’s pretty sure he can tell apart now, share a look. “Well—”

As if on cue, the front door to the house swings open, and the front entryway fills with the sound of loud argument. Jack’s mind goes on high alert, assessing the threat (neutral, considering how the werewolves in the room don’t react in the slightest) and the new kind of… something, that invades the tentative net Jack has cast over the house when he was getting a feel for its inner workings.

If the werewolves in the room possess soft, green magic, and if Lardo’s was a deep maroon, then these new people are a deep blue and bright red, intertwined so tightly Jack perceives them as one at first.

The two voices come closer. Jack is aware he’s being spoken to, but he ignores it in favor of trying to get a grasp on his senses.

The pack’s dossier had listed only werewolves, and Jack’s not incredibly appreciative of the rest it failed to present him with. _An easy assignment_ , Alexei had called it.

“Who’s he?” One of the men, dressed in clothing fit for fall, despite it being well in the middle of July, asks as he plucks a leaf off of the front of his sweater, and drops it on the ground.

Jack blinks. That’s the red one. “Jack.”

The other one narrows bright, amber eyes at him as he folds his arms across his chest, and then glances up at Shitty across the table from Jack. “Why?”

_Blue_ , Jack thinks. “Because… that’s my name?” He holds the man’s look and then sticks out his hand. “Emissary.”

Near instantly, both of the men loosen up, and the first flashes him a smile as he takes his hand. “Nursey. This is Dex.”

Jack nods. “What are you?”

The second man, Dex, makes a disgruntled noise. “Rude.”

“I need to know.” Jack stands, and puts his hands in his pocket. “I’m here for your pack. I need to know what the pack is made up of before I start doing anything.”

Nursey shoves Dex, and shakes his head, smiling fondly even as Dex shoots him an annoyed look. “Dex is selkie, I’m fae. Well, mostly.”

Jack looks back at Shitty. “Does the agency know about this? About all the... “ Jack waves his hand around the room. “Non-were?”

Shitty shrugs. “What they don’t know won’t kill them,” he says, which isn’t really an answer, but Jack will take it, for now at least. “Bitty should be back soon, but there might be some pie in the fridge if you want any?”

Jack blinks. His mind settles on the easiest part first. “Pie?”

Ransom hands him a plate a few moments later. “I don’t really—” Jack starts, before being handed a fork. The rest of the pack has seated themselves around the kitchen, holding their own plates. Dex and Nursey are back to arguing about… something, but much quieter this time, and Lardo is on the counter, tapping away at a laptop, ignoring the arguing right in next to her. “Uh. Alright. Thanks?”

Shitty grins. “Don’t worry about it, bro.”

* * *

When Jack is eight, his mother shows him how to draw his first circle. “Circles,” Alicia tells him, sketching out a small one on a piece of paper, “Are a witch’s most valuable tool.”

He remembers her showing him the different symbols she used in her own magic, and remembers laughing as she made figures of flame dance across the paper, the paper wrinkling but not burning under their heat.

Jack spends years after that, in school and then in the hospital, remembering this first, innocent exposure to magic, holding it close to him as he finds his own magic consistently fail to even do something so simple.

The witches his parents know say it’s because his parents were both too strong, their magics too opposite, and they figure that that’s the reason Jack came out so… underdeveloped.

After years in the finest academies of magic Jack’s parents can afford, Jack can still only barely make party tricks work for him. Alicia’s magic can tear down whole forests with a snap of her fingers, and Bob’s could freeze the rivers by Jack’s childhood home without him even thinking about it, but Jack… struggles.

When Jack is seventeen, he finds an old spellbook of his grandmother’s in their attic. It’s written in the family cipher, which Jack has more than enough training to read but barely enough magic to uncover, and finds a spell, an old one that promises unimaginable power.

Jack makes the mistake of believing in blood magic. He nearly dies for it.

When Alicia and Bob find their son bleeding, shaking, unconscious but blissfully, blessedly alive, the work they’ve all put in to make Jack stronger stops. Jack transfers to a university where he studies the history of magical practice and not the art of magic use. He learns the spells that take components to work and not elemental magic, masters runic languages and is better at layering wards and weaving protection magic into objects than anyone else in his class.

He never learns how to make fire dance like Alicia, or ice shift moving waters like Bob.

When he graduates, he moves out, and joins the agency. Most days, he pretends that the prodigal son of Alicia and Bob Zimmermann whose near-death rocked the world is a different Jack, a Jack who is not him. It works, mostly, and he’s left alone. The prodigal son is no more, and instead there’s just Jack, who reads Elven script as fluidly as he does his native French, who likes the stacks of magical books in the basement of the agency more than he does the people in it, and who couldn’t be less like his parents if he tried.

It’s not a big deal, until it is.

* * *

Jack is in the house for several hours before he meets Bittle, day falling into night as he sits at the kitchen table and makes notes on his laptop, checking against the agency notes and his personal grimoire. Shitty had stayed with him for the first hour or so, answering Jack’s questions and trying to feed him more pie.

As it stands, the house seems to be in desperate need of the most basic of wards, and the surrounding area that belongs to the pack, a good chunk of forest and most of the small town around them, is lacking in any of the magic were packs usually receive from their emissaries. Jack knows, from Shitty rambling off what little history he knows and the small folder of notes from the agency, that this particular pack hasn’t had an emissary for several years now, and that their last one barely did his job anyway. But neither the notes nor Shitty know more about the area beyond about five years back, which means Jack has long days ahead of him digging around in the local library and through the attic of the pack’s house for more.

He already knows he’s going to need to find them a new emissary, which he doesn’t think will be too hard. The area isn’t under constant threat from other packs like in metropolitan areas, and it isn’t a magic-poor area either. The forest provides enough natural magic that even a brand-new emissary should be able to do the job just fine.

Just as Jack’s beginning to sketch out the runes he’ll need for the house, the door slams open once more, chatter filling the silent kitchen. Jack winces at the sudden noise, a mix of voices Jack has yet to hear. Another set of men Jack’s yet to meet walks into the kitchen, followed by Shitty, and a young woman who Jack almost misses among the towering men.

Jack stands, wiping his hands off on his jeans. Before he can say anything, the group stops, all four of them turning their eyes on him. Shitty moves past them, and claps a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “This is Jack, our new emissary.”

Jack holds out a hand. “Temporary emissary.”

They introduce themselves one-by-one. The first, named Chris (or Chowder, if Jack prefers), is an excitable man who warms up to him immediately, and almost as quickly, Jack is rather fond of him.

The next two, the quietest of the pack he’s met yet and possibly the most talkative, introduce themselves as Whiskey and Tango, respectively. Tango is a were, but Whiskey is something Jack can’t put his finger on, and he doesn’t get the chance before the woman is introducing herself as Ford.

He doesn’t pick up on any particular magic from her. “I’m human,” she says, answering his yet-unspoken question. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”

Jack nods once, smiling gratefully at her. The four bustle off, grabbing themselves pie from the fridge (and what is _with_ all the pie, Jack has yet to figure out), leaving Jack alone with Shitty once more. “So—”

“Tango’s a were. Whiskey’s… something.” Shitty says when Jack asks, plopping himself down at the table across from Jack’s stuff.

“You don’t know?”

Shitty shrugs. “Bitty does, and Bitty trusts him, so he’s pack.”

Jack sits down more cautiously. “You’ve got a bit of a…” he trails off, trying to find his next words. “Wayward home, here,” he finishes, eyes flicking between his notes and Shitty across from him, wondering what more he could possibly be missing. The dossier said nearly thirty pack members. He’s met a third of that, and if the rest are anything like this, a mish-mash of creatures that Jack already is struggling to plan around, he’ll need to be here even longer than the few weeks he was planning for already.

Shitty snorts. “A little bit, but we’re the only pack of anything in the area for a few hundred miles, plus we’ve got the college in town.”

“There’s no coven? No…” Jack trails off as he scribbles that down, frowning at the thought. Were they in the middle of the country, where magic tends to be rarer than on the coasts, it would make sense. But on the Eastern Seaboard? With a college in town?

Shitty shrugs. “Not that I know of.”

Jack looks down at his notes. “You have a library in town, right?”

Shitty raises an eyebrow, but nods. “Yeah.”

Jack shoves the papers back into a pile, figuring he’ll sort them later when his notes are more complete anyway. “With local history?”

“Either there or at the university.” Shitty leans forward, looking at Jack’s pile, trying to read his scribbly handwriting from upside-down. “I can have the guys grab stuff from the attic for you too.”

Jack bites his lower lip, fingers tapping against the sturdy oak table. “Yeah, let’s start there.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're familiar with Teen Wolf, the idea of an emissary here is similar to that, except I took all the bad parts away from Teen Wolf's version and replaced with a lot of fast and loose talk about magic. 
> 
> Also, if you wanna come talk more about witch Jack, hit me up on [tumblr.](http://whiskeytangofrogman.tumblr.com/)


End file.
